This house is as empty as a sad poem,
which cannot truly express an absence,
but only offer the presence of a negative
and render it beautiful—
some spilled milk gone rotten in the carpet
because one of us was too busy to clean it
and the other never even knew it was there—
a poor substitute, to be certain.
Like asking for the dancer
and being sent home with the dance.
Through the window, I watch the worms
break through the earth’s crust,
greedily reaching for the light,
brilliantly dividing to multiply.
Dividing to Multiply